Chapter 12 – Ilya
The smell of whiskey and old tobacco filled the dimly lit room as powerful and influential Bratva men sat around the table that dominated the center of the space.
This meeting wasn’t called to settle a dispute or to plan for the future of our organization. No. It was called to discuss one woman. Iris. Obviously, the fact that she still lived and breathed was a problem that needed fixing.
Ivan sat with a cigarette between two fingers, smoke curling up toward the low light above the table.
The windows stayed shut despite the smoke building in layers near the ceiling. Heavy curtains. Dim lamps instead of overhead light, casting long shadows across the faces around the table.
A half-empty bottle of whisky sat near my elbow, untouched since the meeting began. Boris sat to my left. Yuri, my second most trusted man, sat to my right, both listening in silence.
“This organization runs on a set of rules,” Markov said, the streak of gray in his hair catching the low light. “Rules your brother has clearly refused to follow.” His gaze fell on Ivan.
“Why is the girl still alive?” Yevgeni questioned me. “You know what she did, and you know the consequences for that. Why the hesitation?”
I held his gaze for a moment, seething in silence. Yevgeni was one of the oldest men in our organization; in fact, this was a council of the Bratva captains. Elders. So, out of respect for them, I’d have to mince my words.
“Ilya, you’ve always played by the book and never defaulted,” Grigori said, calmer and more open-minded. “I trust your judgment. But that girl has a lot of information that could do serious damage in the wrong hands.”
He’d always been the most understanding of all of them.
“I understand your concern, Grigori,” I finally said, eyes fixed on him. “But I assure you, she’s not a threat.”
“She might not be a threat, as you claim,” Yevgeni chipped in. “But what she knows, what she has on us, is too risky. What if she tells someone?”
“She won’t.” I didn’t look at him.
“How can you be so sure?” Markov asked.
“Because she’s contained.”
“For how long?” Markov’s voice rose a little higher. “How long do you plan to keep her ‘contained,’ Ilya?”
My fingers curled into fists at his tone.
“How can you be so selfish?” he barked, eyes blazing with rage.
“Markov, that’s enough,” Ivan cautioned him.
He continued regardless, “You’re risking everything we’ve built over the years for what, some cheap whore you barely know?!”
The insult landed like a dagger in my chest, making my face contort with pure rage. “Say that again, Markov. I dare you,” I growled, leaning forward and glaring at him.
“Is that a threat, boy?”
“There’s only one way to find out.” I held his gaze. “Say it again.” My fists tightened.
In my head, I’d already cooked up multiple ways to send him to hell the second he opened his mouth to repeat himself.
Tension hung in the air, and all eyes were on us, but I couldn’t care less. If he dared insult her again, there was no guarantee he’d make it out of here alive.
“Enough,” Ivan’s voice sliced through the silence. “Both of you.”
Markov clenched his jaw. “Put a leash on your brother, Ivan. I will not have him disrespect me again.”
“Well, technically, you disrespected him first,” Grigori said to him.
“I did no such thing,” Markov replied.
“You did when you disrespected his woman.”
Silence.
My eyes shifted toward Grigori, shocked by the boldness of his claim.
“His woman?” Yevgeni asked, as confused as the rest of us.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Grigori huffed. “Why do you think he hasn’t eliminated her yet?”
At this point, I wasn’t sure of how I felt, and that uncertainty disturbed me.
“This is why we never get emotionally involved with anyone,” Yevgeni added, his tone laced with mockery. “Now, the almighty Ilya Tarasov has been compromised.”
“What you call compromise, I call opportunity,” Grigori said, his eyes on me. “Room for growth.”
I squinted my eyes, trying to decipher the hidden codes in that statement.
“Ahh, I see,” Ivan said, turning to face me. “Since you will not eliminate her, there’s only one other way to settle this argument once and for all.”
I knew exactly what he was hinting at, and it stirred mixed feelings within me.
“You already see her as your woman,” Grigori said to me. “So, make it formal.”
“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” Markov asked him, a frown perched on his face.
Grigori didn’t even look at him; he kept his eyes on me. “Marry her, Ilya.”
Yevgeni and Markov looked pissed, but neither of them said a word.
Formal marriage under Tarasov law was binding, and it would place her under family protection the second the paperwork existed.
Nobody touches what belongs to the family without answering to the family. This would solve the problem cleanly. Being married into the family meant she’d be obligated to protect our organization’s secrets.
It was a win-win situation.
She’d keep her life, and the council wouldn’t have to worry about her spilling the beans.
The room stayed quiet a moment longer, everyone processing the suggestion, waiting to see how I’d respond.
I didn’t give them anything. Just sat there, jaw tight, letting the silence answer for me in whatever way it wanted to.
The meeting ended without resolution, and the suggestion followed me home anyway.
I sat with it the whole drive back, turning it over, hating how much sense it made and how little I wanted to admit it.
Killing her had stopped being an option the second I first set eyes on her.
I’d spent years building discipline around instinct. Violence, when necessary, controlled and deliberate, never personal.
And here was a quiet woman with chestnut hair and a stubborn mouth, disrupting years of that discipline without even trying.
That realization alone felt dangerous.
When I arrived at the mansion, I walked inside, expecting the usual silence, but instead I heard her laughter echoing off the walls. It came from the kitchen. Real. Bubbly. Somehow, that single sound sparked something bright within me.
I followed the sound and found her at the counter, kitten in her lap, feeding him scraps of chicken while one of the younger guards leaned against the counter across from her, grinning like an idiot.
He said something I didn’t catch, and she laughed again, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. The idea that another man was the reason for her happiness darkened my expression.
Something twisted sharply in my chest, immediate, irrational, before I could stop it.
My fists clenched at my sides as I walked inside, fury flickering in my gaze.
The guard noticed me first. His posture straightened instantly, his grin gone. He immediately put some distance between himself and the counter, as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
Iris looked up next, that smile still retained. “Oh, hey, you’re back,” she said. “Anatoli was just telling me about…”
“Out,” I said to the guard.
He left fast, the kitchen door swinging shut behind him.
Her brows drew together, deepening the frown on her face. “What the hell was that?” She rose to her feet. “You didn’t have to be so mean to him.”
I stepped forward, closing the distance between us. “He overstepped his boundaries.”
“He was just talking to me. He didn’t do anything wrong.” Her scowl deepened.
I didn’t respond to that. Instead, I poured myself a glass of water I didn’t need, just to give my hands something to do other than clench into fists.
The jealousy sat there beneath my calm, ugly and unfamiliar, and I hated how unsettled it made me feel.
Years of controlling every reaction I had, and one guard making her laugh had nearly undone all of it in under a minute.
“What’s the matter with you anyway?” she asked, her voice softer, like she’d realized there was more to my behavior. “Did someone piss you off?”
I finished the water in the glass before setting it down on the counter. “Something like that.”
“Well, it’s not an excuse to be a jerk,” she said, her lips pursed, as if to suppress a smile.
A brief pause settled between us, and I let my eyes linger on her before I could stop myself.
Her chestnut hair was loose tonight, falling past her shoulders instead of tied back the way she usually wore it. She had on one of the oversized sweaters she favored, sleeves pushed up past her wrists, soft against her skin.
Her frown eased slightly, replaced by something else when her gaze dropped to my hand.
“That needs to be bandaged.”
I glanced down at my knuckles. The cuts had already scabbed over, dark and raw against my skin. “It’s just a flesh wound. No need for bandages.”
“Let me take a look.” She closed the distance between us before I could argue further.
Iris reached for my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her fingers wrapped around mine, gentle, careful, her thumb brushing slowly across the broken skin.
“What happened?” she asked, her voice soft and comforting.
I hesitated, keeping my eyes on her. “Our convoy was hit the other night.”
She lifted her head and met my gaze, her eyes searching mine as if she were seeking answers to questions she hadn’t asked yet.
Iris didn’t pull away; she didn’t tear her gaze off me either. She just kept her thumb moving over the wound, her touch soft and soothing, in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
Something in my chest went quiet beneath it, the tension I’d carried all day loosening without my permission.
In the silence that followed, I stood there, letting her hold my hand as if it belonged to her more than to me.
One question lingered in my mind.
How would she react to the idea of being my wife as a way to escape Bratva execution?
Would she reject it?
Would she fight me and hate me for it?
The uncertainty tugged at my mind, and for the first time in a really long time, I was bothered by someone else’s opinion of my decision.